


Eggs on Toast

by sevenlbs



Series: Second Breakfast [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Belly Kink, Domestic Fluff, Fatlock, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenlbs/pseuds/sevenlbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock puts on a few pounds, and surprisingly, the world doesn't end. In fact, everything gets a little bit better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eggs on Toast

“You’ve put on weight,” John says, in mild surprise.

Sherlock’s standing in front of the mirror, reaching for his suit jacket. “Hmm?”

“You have.” John puts down his teacup and steps into the hallway. “I thought I was going crazy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock shrugs on his jacket, straightens, and buttons it.

“It’s not a lot,” John says. “But your suits fit differently.”

Sherlock ignores him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Budge up. This sofa seats more than one, you know.”

Sherlock slides to one side with a show of irritation and goes back to typing on his laptop. John settles next to him and turns on the telly, then glances over. With a soft chuckle, he reaches out and pokes the flesh at Sherlock’s side where his pajama shirt has ridden up.

“What’s this, then?” John grins.

“It’s my skin,” Sherlock says flatly.

“Bit more of it, isn’t there?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock says, and edges farther away.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You can stop sucking it in, you know,” John says, as Sherlock paces the living room.

“What?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know you’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“We can go out jogging, if you like,” John offers one morning, over eggs on toast.

Sherlock swallows his mouthful of egg. “Why would we do that?”

“I dunno. You seem a little… sensitive. Just trying to help.”

Sherlock snorts. “I am not ‘sensitive.’”

“You’ve stopped parading around the flat half-naked.”

“You’re the one who’s always going on about modesty.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never listened _before_.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

“Hmmm,” John says, taking a bite of toast.

Sherlock becomes extremely interested in the newspaper.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“I think maybe you’re misunderstanding me, Sherlock.” John holds out a carton of chow mein. Sherlock gives him a hesitant look, then takes it, passing John the lemon chicken.

John clears his throat. “I’m all for a little… extra padding. So to speak.” He gives a half-grin. “In fact, I _like_ it.”

Sherlock pauses, a bite of chow mein halfway to his lips. “Oh,” he says. 

John smiles as Sherlock’s slightly-less-hollow cheeks take on a pink hue.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"In the middle of the night,“ Sherlock says, apropos of nothing, "I’ve been… starving. Lately.”

John looks up from his book. Sherlock isn’t looking at him, hands steepled in front of his face. “Oh?” John says.

“It’s been interrupting my concentration,” Sherlock growls, dragging his hands over his eyes. “So I have to eat. It’s the only thing that helps.”

“Eating does tend to be the cure for hunger,” John points out.

“I’m well aware.”

There is a long silence.

“Wake me up next time,” John says. “I’ll make you that egg thing you like.”

A half-smile flickers at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, but he doesn’t say anything.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“John.”

“Mmm?”

“John. Wake up.”

“Whass wrong?”

“…Hungry.”

“Oh. Er…. right. Okay.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“That was… delicious.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“…John?”

“Hmm?”

“… Can I kiss you?”

“Oh God, yes.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Sex, as it turns out, is a wonderful appetite stimulant.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John nuzzles into Sherlock as they wake up. “Breakfast?”

“I think so, yes,” Sherlock says, uncurling just enough to lie on his back, John draped over him. Sherlock presses a lazy kiss to John’s forehead, then prods the soft swell of John’s side. “You always think about food, don’t you?”

As if on cue, Sherlock’s own stomach growls noisily.

John laughs, a deep belly laugh. He gives the new, softer flesh at Sherlock’s middle a pat. “Good thing I do,” he says.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Sherlock, love – I think this is your button.”

John picks it up and hands it over. Sherlock glances at him, then down at his shirt, where a sliver of pale flesh is exposed, free of its confinement. His brow creases in annoyance. 

John merely chuckles, then undoes the rest. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I suppose we should start jogging sometime,” Sherlock says, leaning back against the sofa, his gaze wandering over his partner. Lover. Well, boyfriend. 

John rests a hand on his middle. “Is this your way of saying I’ve gotten fat? Not very subtle.”

Sherlock smirks. “No, it’s my way of saying we both have.”

“You’d never jog. Be realistic.”

“I’d try it.”

John pats Sherlock’s belly, which has started to make itself known, decidedly round under his soft grey shirt. “You’re entirely too lazy.”

Sherlock stretches, humming in agreement. “I think sex is enough exercise.”

“I’m not going to argue with you.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“That’s… a lot of pudding, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoops another helping onto his plate. “If I have to go to these vile holiday parties, I plan on making the most of it.”

“Are you conducting some sort of experiment, then? How much pudding one human can consume in a sitting?” John looks at his own plate, then back at Sherlock’s. “Didn’t you have any supper?”

“Supper is boring. Sticky toffee pudding is not.”

“You don’t usually think supper is boring.”

“There’s not usually sticky toffee pudding.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Oof,” Sherlock groans, collapsing onto the sofa. He fumbles with his trouser button, then sighs as it finally comes undone.

“I’m having a Scotch,” John says, clattering around in the kitchen. “Want me to pour you one?”

“God, yes.”

“How about some pudding?”

John laughs out loud at the stream of profanity that issues from the sitting room. He pours two generous glasses of Scotch, then sets them on the coffee table and settles next to Sherlock. 

“Overdid it a bit?” he says, trying not to smile.

“Truly, John, you are a genius." 

"C'mere then, Podgy. I think your belly needs a rub.”

“I’m not podgy –” Sherlock begins, and then moans in bliss as John kneads a hand gently into the sensitive, tight flesh. 

“Not yet, maybe,” John says, rubbing Sherlock’s swollen middle. “But you’re getting there.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sherlock wanders into the kitchen, fidgeting with the waistband of his pyjama pants.

“I’m going to revise my previous statement,” Sherlock says.

“And which statement would that be?” John says, setting his coffee mug in the sink and tilting his head up to give Sherlock a kiss.

Their bellies brush together as Sherlock leans in, and as they break apart, Sherlock looks down. “This,” he says, patting the side of his own belly.

“Podgy?” John’s voice is warm with amusement.

“Maybe,” Sherlock says gruffly. 

“Well,” John says, surveying Sherlock with a glint in his eye, “let me see.” He tilts his head, then tugs at Sherlock’s t-shirt, pulling it tighter, and grins. Sherlock’s belly is surprisingly round, straining against his shirt and pooching out over his pyjamas. His waistband dips down to accommodate the swell of it. 

“Hmm,” John says. “I’d say you’re… well-fed?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“All right, yeah,” John admits, giving Sherlock’s stomach a jiggle. “This is quite a tum you’re getting, love.”

Sherlock sighs. “I used to hate eating. I suppose I should remember how to hate it again.”

“Or,” John says, quirking an eyebrow, “I could make us an omelet and take you back to bed.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock says.

It’s a very tasty omelet.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~


End file.
